Dog Named Leaf (4 page)

For some reason Leaf’s nervousness and discomfort made my affection for him grow. I assumed that for some period of time, he’d had to take care of himself. He looked like a pup who learned not to rely on others. Yet I sensed that this dog needed me.

After a few days the cats could come upstairs. They’d go back to their routine of looking out the living room window and lounging on their carpeted kitty condo. We planned to put up a gate we had purchased at the pet store between the hallway and my office. Leaf could stay in one
section of the house, and the cats could get used to his presence without having to be in the same room with him.

We also bought a large fabric-covered dog crate and a soft dog bed that fit into it. Leaf would have a man cave to call his own. As for crate training, we’d learn more about that careful process later when we bought a book on the subject.

On the first night of Leaf’s arrival, we thought he might be scared, so we put his crate in our bedroom. That way, he’d be able to hear us breathing and feel comforted. At first he whimpered. Then, as if he was an instrument reaching crescendo pitch, Leaf’s whimper turned into a howl. If anyone doubts that dogs descended from wolves, they’d only need to hear Leaf’s howling to know the truth. One or two blood-curdling wails prompted Linda to wish hopefully, “He’ll stop in a few minutes.” Ten minutes later he was still baying.

We tried to calm him. I found a night-light and plugged it in, so that its glow warmed the bedroom. Again, we switched off our bedside lamps. The howling resumed.

“Leaf, what’s wrong, baby?” Linda asked.

Five more minutes of shrieking. Then Leaf became quiet. We almost fell asleep when Leaf started yowling as if announcing the end of the world. I moved his dog bed out of the crate and placed it closer to our bed.

“He might need to go outside,” I told Linda after he howled again. I put on my clothes and fastened Leaf’s leash to his collar. We trekked out the front door for a midnight stroll. He walked around in circles in the front yard. We hadn’t yet established a place for him to go regularly in the backyard. No scents were sweet enough to signal his spot. Finally he peed a little. Could sleep be in sight?

I trundled him back indoors. He sniffed the carpet. Before I could stop him, he lifted his leg and left his mark. He
did
have to go after all.

Linda got up and found the pet-stain remover we’d bought that day. She soaked the wet spot with the solution. Then she sat on the living room floor and sighed.

Since we couldn’t sleep, we discussed our options. We resolved to return to the pet-supply store and find an herbal remedy that could help to calm our dog’s nerves. Throughout the first night I repeatedly took Leaf outside for bathroom breaks. He didn’t need to go anymore. Why would he? Our living room had served as his urinal.

By morning two sleep-deprived new dog parents faced each other over a cup of strong coffee. Their rescued cocker spaniel snored quietly outside his dog crate.

I
HOPED THAT WE’D EVENTUALLY DISCOVER ENOUGH CLUES TO
L
EAF’S
secret past for us to be able to help him heal. As I soon discovered, he brought many scars with him from his previous life. Severe separation anxiety made it difficult to ever let him be by himself, even in a room in our house. His unfamiliarity with living indoors destroyed our carpet. Due to his strong chase instinct, he terrorized our cats. Leaf lurched at other dogs, rabbits, and squirrels whenever we walked him around the neighborhood, which meant sore shoulders and knees for us.

I looked to veterinarians, trainers, and animal-loving friends for help. Because animal communicators had helped us with our pets in the past, I was grateful when one of them offered to listen to Leaf telepathically.

Marcia Wilson, a California woman who had served as a judge in our Angel Animals story contests, offered to tune in to our troubled boy. On a cold November day, Linda, Leaf, and I huddled together in a quiet bedroom to have a conversation with Marcia by phone. She quickly told us, “This is different than my sessions with other dogs. Leaf is very quiet. Too quiet. He won’t talk to me.”

What could we do? Although each person we consulted had given important pieces to the puzzle that was Leaf, no one had been able to adequately advise us on how to make him more comfortable or less anxious. Our sleepless nights were blending into stress-filled days as we tried to cope with all of this dog’s erratic behaviors and fears.

Marcia tried to reassure Leaf. “All your new mom and dad want to do is to make life better for you.” Then she asked him what had happened at the shelter. His answer would make us understand the depth and source of his suffering.

“I got left.”

When Marcia told us what Leaf had communicated to her, he lowered his head. His body slumped to the floor. Marcia, who couldn’t see Leaf’s body language, said, “He feels so much shame. He doesn’t know what he did wrong.”

Even though Linda and I reassured him that this was his forever home, would Leaf still wonder if he would ever be left again? How long would it take before he believed that no matter how often we corrected him or gave him time-outs in his comfortable crate, he was home? How much praise and affection would he require to bolster his self-esteem? Could he believe that we’d never stop loving him?

After making a revelation that obviously destroyed what little self-confidence he had, Leaf did not want to discuss it further with Marcia, as the memory was too painful. When the session ended, we tried to console him with a pat on the head, but he turned away from us. His little body quivered with embarrassment and grief.

On the first few visits Leaf and I made to the dog park, my heart ached to see him study the faces of each dog who entered the park. Not in the way dogs do when they’re scouting a prospective playmate, but in the desperate way of someone who has lost a best friend. I was reminded of what the animal shelter volunteer had told us. “Harley” had been dropped off at the after-hours reception area with another dog. Had the two dogs been each other’s only friends in the world? Is this the buddy Leaf looked for in every dog he met?

Since we had made progress with Marcia, we decided to try a phone session with another animal communicator named Mary Stoffel. We
wanted Mary to talk with Leaf about how he should conduct himself around cats. Mary took a few minutes to tune in telepathically to Leaf. He remained quiet with her too, at first. She communicated with him about the nature of cats. “They’re nothing like dogs.” Mary told Leaf that when he chased the cats, they had to defend themselves by clawing at his ears and face. They could hurt him. He’d have to leave them alone.

After Mary finished communicating with Leaf, we explained to her that in addition to his panic attacks, he became aggressive upon meeting certain types of people, such as the large white male who had walked toward him at Lake Harriet. And yet he seemed to gravitate toward men, especially Latino men.

Based on Leaf’s specific fears and behaviors, Mary speculated that he might be a puppy-mill dog. I had done research on puppy mills for our animal-rescue book. Often, purebred dogs, especially popular breeds such as cocker spaniels, were sold from these horrific places to pet stores, where people bought them. The unsuspecting buyers don’t realize that the pups have been treated inhumanely and might develop severe behavioral and physical problems. Animal shelters are the sad recipients of many puppy-mill / pet-store dogs. People surrender them after they wreak havoc on the buyers’ homes and wallets.

Leaf certainly had some of the characteristics of a puppy-mill dog—more so than we realized at the time. Mary’s theory made sense to us. After the session with her, we were grateful to notice that Leaf’s cat chasing, although not over, decreased considerably.

In those early months Leaf constantly needed to be with one of us. He never wanted to lose sight of a human. He must have held to the idea that if he was always in our company, he would not be left again. He followed me from room to room. If I wasn’t at home, he stayed near Linda.

When he napped, he’d often wake up disoriented. The whites of his eyes reddened, his entire body trembled, and he would hurl his head back. His eyes glazed over as if he had entered another realm. With uncontrollable fear, he’d emit ear-piercing shrieks. Even when we’d rush into the room to reassure him that he wasn’t alone, he didn’t recognize us and couldn’t stop wailing. It took lots of soothing to calm him down.

Our neighbors told me, “We can hear your dog howling all the way over here.” I wondered if they thought we might be mistreating him and explained about his separation anxiety. But they knew how much we loved animals and understood that we were dealing with something over which we had no control.

We were never quite sure how Leaf would react. Once when he started howling out of the blue, I said to him loudly, “Leaf, look around. You’re home. It’s normal.” To my relief, he snapped out of it and wagged
his tail. Then to my shock and without hesitation, he rolled over on his back and I gave him the first tummy rub that he allowed me to give. That’s also when I discovered what would become Leaf’s magic word:
normal.
A guy who had lost everything loved when life was normal.

Night after night Leaf’s wolf howls continued to keep me on edge. At times he would come over to my side of the bed and place his front paws on the mattress. His lustrous dark eyes would look at me with desperation as I peeked at him half-asleep.

“Need to go outside?” I’d ask him softly, so as not to wake Linda. We didn’t have a fenced-in backyard, so I took Leaf for as many as three walks per night, often between midnight and 4 a.m.

Winters are harsh in the Twin Cities. During the first season with Leaf, nature hit us with all its might. Subzero winds fought through my protective clothing. Inches of snow formed over layers of ice on the sidewalks. I had to bundle up in a heavy coat, hat, and gloves several times each night to serve his multiple attempts at elimination. Poor Leaf was constipated a lot, and his response to any pressure to hurry up so we could get back inside ensured that things wouldn’t happen. Elimination, like every other process for this often terrified dog, had to take place on his own schedule. I soon learned the key to success was movement. If we walked at a fast pace, he was more likely to do his business. Then we could escape the windchill and go back inside. Somehow I managed not to fall on the slick sidewalks that entire winter.

Many times I did not return to bed after the first walk around the neighborhood. Instead, I’d go to my room across the hall from our bedroom and sit in my old tan recliner chair. I’d pick up Leaf, put him on my lap, and prop his head on a small blue pillow. Listening to his rapidly beating heart, I’d feel his legs twitch, as they sprawled across my chest and abdomen. “You’re such a sweet pup,” I’d tell him in a low voice.

In these moments Leaf would study my face as I chanted HU, a sacred word that is said to be the sound within all sounds of creation. I
learned about HU through Eckankar, a spiritual teaching that has shown me how to recognize the spark of God in each person and animal I meet. Singing HU soothed my dog’s anxious body and mind. His head would lower and rest on my chest. I sensed that at last, he felt safe next to a warm body and a steady human heartbeat. With a loud sigh, he’d soundly drift into a deep sleep. And so would I, for whatever remained of the dwindling nighttime hours.

How could I keep up this sleep-deprived routine? I did not know. How long would I do this? For as long as it took.

L
EAF’S NIGHTLY OUTINGS AND THE HOURS SPENT WITH HIM SLEEPING
on my lap brought healing for both of us. He was bonding with me, and I was recovering from the loss of Taylor. By the time Dr. Lucas delivered the news that I had a brain aneurysm, the effects of those special moments had strengthened me emotionally. After my initial meltdown on the floor outside an elevator at my office, I was able to grant myself only a few more minutes of self-pity. I had to return to my office and try to get my act together.

I pushed my hands against the wall and managed to stand up. My mind raced as I thought,
Walk slowly. Try to understand what just happened here. Focus.
Since my reaction to the doctor’s news had been so emotional, I dreaded the effect it would have on my wife.

While Linda had shown amazing strength through her own challenges with breast cancer five years earlier, she is especially sensitive to any pain of mine and of our children. If I told her my news, I feared she’d fly into a panic. Would there be uncharacteristic over-the-top drama? She might become unreasonable. What if she cried? I never knew how to handle it when she had what to me was an emotional reaction. I would tell her, “Everything will be OK.” But would everything be OK this time?

I decided not to tell her. I’d convince her to visit her parents in Texas and schedule the operation while she was out of town. But if she found out I had surgery while she was gone, she’d go ballistic.
Alright,
I told
myself,
she’ll be upset for two or three weeks but then she’ll be OK.
Then again, it could be a sore point for many years. Maybe even a lifetime.

Yes, I was having a crisis. But since facts, statistics, and options had always been my first and best resort for handling crises, I decided to make a plan. Any challenge could become manageable with rational, deliberate analysis, I reasoned. What would Spock do? This new way of viewing the news brought relief even though I was angry at my brain. How could it let me down like this? A broken brain? Seriously?

When I googled “brain aneurysm,” hundreds of entries flooded the screen. There were horror stories of botched surgeries, lifelong disabilities, and blood bubbles that caused people intense suffering and pain. The more I read, the more miraculous I realized it was that mine had been found before it burst. Dr. Lucas was right. I was one of the fortunate ones.

None of these websites were going to make it easy to tell my wife about any of this. My anxiety started to rise again, so I clicked onto the
Angel Animals Network website, where I could look at photos of Leaf playing in the snow during his first winter with us. What was it about this troubled little guy that calmed me?

Suddenly an idea, a brilliant idea, came to me. My job as a computer-software analyst often required me to perform “information management” of collected data. For my wife, I’d design a fact sheet about brain aneurysms and surgery. It would include an easy-to-read overview, definitions, possible options, and most importantly, success stories. I’d leave out the horrors and unsettling statistics. It would be information
manipulation
management. The fact sheet would ease Linda into my new reality. For the first time since Dr. Lucas’s call, a slight smile flitted across my face. I was taking charge.

I constructed the report with as much care and detachment as one can when talking about brain surgery. I played around with descriptive words to make it sound less serious. In a stroke of genius, I decided to refer to the operation as a “surgical procedure.” I thought the lighter terminology might help Linda ease into the situation. With time, she’d adjust, and then we could have a reasonable discussion about how to proceed.

I also researched the neurosurgeon to whom Dr. Lucas referred me. Dr. Eric S. Nussbaum had impressive credentials. He had authored numerous journal articles and a book on the innovative procedure he developed for clipping brain aneurysms. I called and made the appointment. I appreciated Dr. Lucas’s referral to the best neurosurgeon in the Midwest. Perhaps the best in the country.

By the time I finished the fact sheet, I proudly viewed it as a masterpiece of practical understatement. I planned to present it to Linda that night. I figured she’d read it and not give the news too much more thought.

“You’re telling me you have a brain aneurysm? You’re going to need brain surgery? And you gave me a memo?!” Linda shrieked at me as she glared at the fact sheet on the dining room table.

“I have an
un
ruptured brain aneurysm,” I explained.” The factual information I presented was to reassure you that all could be handled within the realm of reason. And without emotional drama.” I sort of choked on that last statement as I recalled my near breakdown earlier that day.

“This is not a memo situation!”

Without thinking, I said, “When I found out, I wondered if you needed to know, that maybe I would be able to …” I looked at her and realized it would probably be best to stop talking.

Instead, I reached out for Linda’s hand. We walked into the living room and sat on the couch. There, we had an honest conversation about everything that was at stake. I told her what I remembered from the conversation with Dr. Lucas. I said I’d made an appointment with Dr. Nussbaum for an evaluation. We talked about how we would get through this—together.

I held Linda in my arms while tears filled her eyes. The no-drama idea went out the window, as it probably should have from the onset. I realized that when you have bad news, it’s better to hold hands and talk about it rather than present your wife with a well-constructed, typed, and printed document.

While Linda and I discussed what could be a dismal future, Leaf stretched out on the fireplace hearthstone nearby. Mary, the animal communicator we consulted, had told us that Leaf referred to this spot as his “carved-out place.” If he needed privacy to process whatever was happening in his life, his carved-out place became his personal refuge. We always respected his need for space and didn’t touch or try to engage him when he retreated to the hearthstone.

Tonight, he listened to us talking with his head resting on his paws. He seemed to be taking in our emotions and pondering the situation. Even though he couldn’t convey concerns in human language, I sensed he understood that a funnel cloud barreled toward our home.

What could a young pup do to avert disaster for him and the people he had come to depend upon?